


Strangers on a Bus

by MrsMollyH



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Exhibitionism, Light BDSM, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMollyH/pseuds/MrsMollyH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Trek RPF Exchange. In a world where Zach and Chris are still every day people, what happens when they see each other every day--but cannot bring themselves to speak? Lots and lots of fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers on a Bus

Zachary wasn’t really one to fantasize. No, seriously. He was usually one who got off on memories of actual events—the thought of his eagerly bi friend Eric sucking him off, the recollection of hard thrusts into his former boy toy, Anton. But there was one person he simply could not get off his mind.

There was a young guy—thirty, maybe—who always got off the bus one stop before Zach did. He was tall, a solid six feet, and long and lean, muscular in all the right places, and blond. And, oh Christ, the few times they had made eye contact, Zach had been nailed to his seat by the blue of his fellow rider’s eyes—whose name he knew to be Chris by the manner he answered his phone calls, “This is Chris,” in a crisp baritone. And each time they shared the bus, they offered each other a brotherly greeting, each raising his chin at the other in acknowledgement. That was it—but that wasn’t all Zach had thought of.

One afternoon, after Chris had gotten off the bus in his workout gear—loose basketball shorts and a wifebeater, Zach had palmed his arousal through his jeans just to release some of the pent-up tension. When he got home, the thought of running his tongue over the hardened nipples through the thin white cotton of the wifebeater consumed him and he came in his hand hard, needy and with a gasp under the heat of his shower on his shoulders.

On another occasion, Chris had stepped into the bus in jeans so low rise that Zach could not only tell he was not wearing a stitch under them but Zach could see the cinnamon colored trail of downy hair that led his eyes to below the jeans’ waistband, and he had to stifle a groan when he realized he could see a hint of cock outlined beneath the old, thin denim.

About a month later, the temperature had dipped unexpectedly and Chris had stepped onto the bus in a cardigan and with a scarf wrapped around his tan neck. Over and over in his mind, Zach fantasized about tying Chris to his bed with the scarf and fucking him mercilessly, yanking that dirty blond hair so hard it twisted Chris’ neck and made breathing even more difficult. As he imagined it, he could feel the flush rise on his own neck, which made him nervously clear his throat and rearrange his body to hide his arousal.

Where did these thoughts fucking come from? He hadn’t felt this needy—much less horny—since his early twenties, and where in the fuck was it coming from now?

In the end, Zach decided it was not his to worry over, and so he continued to come furiously and on his own, over and over, night after night, to the flimsy imaginings buried deep within his brain. 

His hand would stroke and release, stroke and release repeatedly to the thoughts of those pretty lips around his cock, pure blue eyes gazing at him and begging for approval, then the thought of pulling his cock from that bruised mouth, curling his thumb into the hook of Chris’ lips and over his sharp white teeth. He imagined holding that beautiful mouth open and coming on Chris’ lips, his cheeks. It was that look that he conjured, that needfuckwant in those blue eyes paired with a flick of his own wrist that made him come hard, without fail, night after night.

 

Chris was an actor looking for work, and finding only pretty-boy roles. The only thing making him money these days were shotgun sports championships and the occasional modeling gig—but in truth, he, like most LA pretty boys, was a full-time waiter. And, as a full time LA waiter, he spent a lot of time on the bus.

And spending time on the bus meant spending time with people on the bus, which, generally, he was not a fan of. However, there was one guy he saw during the afternoon on his trip from apartment to restaurant that caught his eye—thin and sinewy, with thick hair and dark, dark brown eyes. And, dear Christ, Chris had a type and this guy fit. He didn’t know his name—once he had seen monogram on a striped button-down: ZQ. Other than that, Chris knew nothing but that he wanted his fellow rider feverishly. 

He got into the habit of going commando under jeans in hopes of catching his eye. When it was warm, he wore as little clothing as possible. 

At night he would toss and turn until finally he gave in to his fantasies: feeling Z’s eyes on him, running all over his body as Chris got himself off. Imagining those eyes on him, those deep, brooding eyes was enough to set Chris off, spilling into his own hand with a yelp and a groan full of unfulfilled desires.

One cold night, Chris had shut his eyes and imagined Z setting up a camera, pointing it right at them, filming as Z fucked him within an inch of his life, holding off his orgasm and making him wait until it was almost painful and then letting him go, letting him come and making him see stars with a single word: “Go.” Again, Chris came hard, whimpering, spent by his own hand and his own mind.

Chris felt a heat under his flesh when he sat on the bus—always a few rows in front of Z, just so he could feel those dark eyes on him. Chris needed, wanted to be watched, to be someone’s toy, someone’s living artwork. Chris wished to belong to someone, to perform for them. It got Chris off to belong, to be beautiful, and night after night, he used this fantasy to bring himself to completion, Chris would twist his hand just right and fantasize those eyes looking down at him, telling him that yes, he could come, and yes, he was beautiful when he came, “good boy.” And he would come each time because of this fantasy with a cry and a whimper, a begging noise, like a mendicant wishing to be made pure through his darkest desires.


End file.
